


In The Spill Of Shadows

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Series: Predilections [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, M/M, Other, Pre-Slash, nogistune - Freeform, predilections verse, void!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wears his face, even in his own mind.  It teases him. Twists him up in smoke and mirrors.  The Nogitsune makes him forget that nothing is real, until Stiles is so trapped in himself, he doesn’t know to be afraid.  But the staccato tap of Deaton etching ruins in Demon-Ink across his skin ground him.  Every sink of ink weakens the Nogitsune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> moved this over from the Predilections fic because it was confusing some people. So now it stands here, and I may continue it who knows?-

It isn’t particularly talkative. No, the thing inside him deals in imagery. Blood, fresh and red, spilled over his own skin. Stiles watches himself, behind the fluttering pink of his own eyelids, kill everyone he knows and loves.  They die trying to save him.  They die for him, at his hands. All of them. He watches Allison’s dad pull a trigger, hit his own daughter instead of Stiles. He sees Derek bite him, sink his teeth into Stiles’ throat, only to have Stiles return the favor. He tears Derek’s throat out with his own blunt teeth. He eats his heart, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

 

He can’t sleep. When he sleeps---

 

It’s not exactly hard to find her. Noshiko isn’t a common name, and the town is small enough that Stiles has heard about the nice japanese family that moved in up on Poplar and Foxrun Court.  He knocks; it’s late, nearing nine.  The moon hangs in the sky, a mocking smile that cuts across the black.  If he listens hard enough, Stiles can hear it ticking like a clock.

 

A man answers. “Can I help you, son?”

 

“I’m looking---” He catches sight of a woman, standing in an archway that divides the living room from the dining room. “I think I’m looking for you? I think we’ve met before. Last night. But...Before that.”

 

She nods at her husband, and something passes between them, a silent spill of words. “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he murmurs, before leaving.

 

Stiles rocks on his heels. “Are you Noshiko?”

 

“You know what I am.” Without warning, she grabs him by the face, long fingers trapping his chin. Her gaze catches his, and Stiles feels cold beneath it. He can feel something thrum between them, focused where she touches him. It’s like static, and it crackles in his ears, a burning rush of white-noise. “Do you know what he is?”

 

“It’s a demon,” Stiles says, reasonably certain. “I can’t fall asleep. If I fall asleep---”

 

“No demon. Nogitsune,” she interrupts, dragging him into the house. “I saw him last night.  He was--- subdued. Not as I remember. What did you do?”

 

Stiles drags his sleeve up, to reveal his the mark burned into his wrist. The runes are still unfamiliar, but crisp. It’s infected; Stiles can’t ignore the heat of his own festering skin.  “I wasn’t sure it would work.” There are more, on his other wrist. They skate up his forearms, blistering scars. He can feel that they work though. But they fade quickly, and the thing inside him- it’s strong. Stronger at night, when Stiles is at his weakest.  

 

He feels sick just thinking about what might have happened to Danny. They were never so close that the Thing killed Danny in Stiles mind, but now it’s curious.  Stiles has been careful not to be alone with anyone, not when all he sees is blood and death. That he let his guard down with Danny is...terrifying.

 

She hauls his arm up to her face, eyes narrowing. “Where did you find this?”

 

“In my mind.” Stiles can’t explain it.  The demon had tried to hide it, but Stiles had found it. He’d saw it, carved into wood. Burned. Black at the edges, just like the scar on his arm.  It would turn white, one day, but not today.  Today it was a blackened scab, burned into place with a twisted coat hanger and a gas-stove flame.

 

“It will weaken him,” she agrees, but her mouth is pulled into a frown. “But it will also trap him within you. I used this mark to trap him in a tree..”

 

“We cut the tree down.” It comes out in a rush. “The Nemeton. We--- we had too. There was a Drauch---”

 

Noshiko laughs. “Isn’t there always?”  She lets his arm fall, and moves to sit on one of the low, squashy leather couches in the sitting room. Stiles does too, but his perch is delicate and his eyes remain on the coffee table placed between them. “I don’t know how to remove him from you, boy.  I don’t know that it can be done, without killing you.”

 

“I can’t sleep.” Stiles can feel the hysteria bubbling up in him. “And I can’t tell anyone about him. He’s---he’s done something to me. I’m not suppose to know about him; it makes him angry. He did something to me, when I try to tell anyone- anyone but you - I can’t.”

 

“He has placed a geis on your tongue. You shouldn’t know about him.” She stares past Stiles, at something he is sure does not exist. “But because you do, I believe there is hope for you.  You have weakened him, and bound him within you. Can you carve out a place like I did, where you might bury him?”

 

“If I don’t, I die?”  His heart hammers in his chest. “I’m not loving my options.”

 

“If you don’t, I will kill you.” there is no dissembling in her voice, no hesitance or regret. “He will use you, boy. He will hurt you, and everything you love.  His game, the Nogitsune, is chaos. Chaos, and revenge.” She pauses, long enough to contemplate Stiles with a narrowed, assessing gaze. “You call him a demon, but you are wrong. Nogitsune. He is a dark Kitsune.” Something in Stiles face must reveal the knowledge there, because Noshiko smiles. “Have you heard of the Oni?”

 

“I thought he was one.” Japanese demons - they’re depicted like trolls, or devils. “I’m possessed by a fox spirit?”

 

“It is like, I think, the Unseelie of the Fairy Court. There is light and dark in all things. Nogitsune was born in fear and pain, and so he lives it.  He would own you, had you not discovered him within.  You must own him first.” She touches his wrist, and Stiles hisses at the stomach-dropping rush of pain. “I can help you.”

 

***

 

Deaton does it, in the end. He’s the only one trained enough to risk such a thing. There is, he explains, a chance that Stiles will become trapped within his own mind alongside the Nogitsune.

 

There are elements to this that Stiles has yet to really encompass. The mark will not be small. It’s binding, and permanent, and must be grounded.  There must be an element to tie Stiles in place. Love, usually; parental works best.  Stiles shuts down the idea of telling his father really quick. Derek offers his own blood in place, and the pack bond to tether.  S

 

Noshiko makes an offering too, in the form of ink. It spills like shadows into the bowl, and moves like a gas, not a liquid..  “The Oni. We will fight fire with fire.”

 

Deaton explains that the ink is made of her own demons.  He calls them her tails, and it’s only then that Stiles realizes that Noshiko is a Kitsune; a fox spirit, like the Nogitsune.  It is a sacrifice on her part, Stiles understands, though he cannot encompass the greatness of it.  Kitsune only have so many tails. She’s given one to Stiles.

 

“Not so much like the Nogitsune,” she murmurs, pinning him down with an elbow pressed into his collar bone.  Deaton taps the needle into his flesh, and Stiles feels the Nogitsune fight within him.

 

“If you become lost,” Deaton tells him, with grave eyes. “Search for the Spark. You have something inside you, Mr.Stilinski, that the Nogitsune cannot beat. This you have already proven. Find it.”

 

The pack is there, pinning him to the table. He’s stronger than he should be, strong enough to throw Isaac across the room. Strong enough to break Scott’s arm, and Derek’s jaw.  Someone - Lydia he thinks - stabs him in the neck and the weight of the world pulls him to hell; Kanima Venom.  

 

Deaton pushes the needle in again.  The Nogitsune rages. It sinks claws into the meat of Stiles mind and tears up old wounds and bad dreams like some people might pull up an old carpet. It’s like being torn apart by your own goddamn hands.

 

Stiles falls into his own head.

He doesn’t look back.

 

It wears his face, even in his own mind.  It teases him. Twists him up in smoke and mirrors.  The Nogitsune makes him forget that nothing is real, until Stiles is so trapped in himself, he doesn’t know to be afraid.  But the staccato tap of Deaton etching ruins in Demon-Ink across his skin ground him.  Every sink of ink weakens the Nogitsune.  

 

Stiles fights.


	2. After Danny, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny’s mad at him. Danny has every right to be mad at him. Stiles is sort of use to being a complete fuck up. He's so used to lying that it falls from his mouth as easy as breathing. Half his life is lies, and the other half is largely werewolves. It’s not even the first time he’s lied to Danny, it’s just the first time he’s got caught. It’s not like his dad who is parentally obligated to keep him regardless of his continuum of fuck-ups. Danny doesn’t have to deal with his shit, and frankly - Stiles has a lot of shit.
> 
>  
> 
> Danny’s not having any of it.
> 
>  
> 
> (makes no goddamn sense if you've not read Predictions, a stanny fic in this verse).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place up to Danny and Stiles break up, but before their special Moon. It should explain a lot.

   He isn't supposed to be alone - not this close to the moon.  But shit -it’s not like he wants Erica or god forbid Isaac, piggybacking this one.  As much as he loves the pack, the babysitting detail was getting tedious. So he slips his nanny - Scott tonight- and scales the tree outside his bathroom window.

 

This sucks.

 

Danny’s mad at him. Danny has every right to be mad at him. Stiles is sort of use to being a complete fuck up. He's so used to lying that it falls from his mouth as easy as breathing. Half his life is lies, and the other half is largely werewolves. It’s not even the first time he’s lied to Danny, it’s just the first time he’s got caught. It’s not like his dad who is parentally obligated to keep him regardless of his continuum of fuck-ups. Danny doesn’t have to deal with his shit, and frankly - Stiles has a lot of shit.

 

Danny’s not having any of it.

 

And to be fair to Danny, he did see Stiles body slam a guy into the ground with one hand, and people aren't really used to seeing that kind of violence from Stiles.  At least, not anyone outside of the Wolf Pack Circle of Trust.  Sure, Stiles has never been known for his sound moral compass, but he’s never been overly capable of physical violence, so his penchant for blood thirst largely went ignored. Until the Nogitsune, anyway.

 

   Danny lives clear across town by way of the road, but only fifteen minutes through the woods. Stiles is tempted - god but he is tempted. But in the end, he slips up the street and hovers awkwardly at a stop sign as three cars roll past like he and the sign aren’t even there.  He’s taking a risk, but he’s not stupid.  There are undoubtedly things in the woods he can’t defend against yet. Sure, the woods like him now - he cleared away a significant taint when he ate the new spring grown of the Nemeton. The forest is clean of that darkness, but it’s not exactly a field of daisies. The way he’s feeling in that moment, coupled with the unstrung power vibrating in his bones, he’s just as likely to burn the fucking forest down on accident as he is on purpose. Magic runs on emotion, so Deaton explained. Stiles is torn between wanting to scream or cry or both.  

 

It’s a long walk from Stiles to Danny’s, and he isn’t inclined to keep to the sidewalks. He’s...he’s not powerless without the ritual. Crossing over only does so much. Stiles suspects it’s the opposite. He’s got too much; he needs the pack to ground him. He needs the moon to tie him. It mocks him from its place in the sky, fat and full but for tomorrow's last sliver.

 

Nothing is as it should be; he shouldn’t be so tied in ink and magic already. He knows in his bones that he’s an abomination; meant to be a spark, but demon-fueled and bottomless with the Nemeton. Nothing about him is natural, and there’s nothing to be done for it. There’s no going back. A stain is a stain is a stain and even in death, Stiles isn’t sure he’ll ever be clean of it. He lets static-magic collect at his fingertips and vaults himself through the shadows of the street. The Nogitsune taught him that.

 

The Nogitsune. God - but sometimes Stiles misses his violent little voice in the back of his head. At least, when the Nogitsune talked to him, Stiles could blame all his horrible passing thoughts off as the Demon. Now they’re his alone, and he can’t deny them.

 

It was the Nogitsune after Stiles had bound him to a Void in his own mind, that lead him to the Nemeton. It was the Nogitsune that told him to eat, and Stiles had. The Nogitsune couldn’t escape him, couldn’t trick or lie to him, not with the ruins and wards and magic all inked in lines beneath his skin.  Short of cutting all of Stiles limbs off, he could not leave.  Instead, he sat in Stiles mind, whispering all the things he could have done, showing Stiles the world of possibilities they’d only just barely missed. He showed him death and blood and Stiles lived it day in and day out, felt it like it really happened; killing Scott, killing his father. He watched them all die, over and over, torture, murder, more. The humanity in Stiles mind had driven the demon mad, though; pools of guilt and fear flooded them both constantly.

 

His echoing screams woke Stiles in the dead of night, sharp as a ringing bell when Stiles own nightmares were too much for it to handle.  But the demons screams couldn’t drown out the screams of everyone else. Thousands, Stiles thought, every victim the Nogitsune took, and Stiles could hear them all.

 

Stiles remembers kneeling against the tree stump, staring at the curling vine of green. ‘And this will kill you?’

 

‘It will end this,’ the Nogitsune had promised, and Stiles could feel the visceral, desperate want in his words. ‘End it Stiles. End the fucking screaming.’  So Stiles ate the Nemeton, and the Nogitsune went quiet.

 

It didn’t kill them, neither of them, and Stiles had known of course that it wouldn’t. No, it married them.  Stiles became the Nogitsune, not just in power, but in memory. He knew, with a sudden and horrifying clarity, every thought the demon had ever had, all the knowledge, all the blood. He lived it, in his own head, but felt it with his own heart. The screaming did end, and the Nogitsune never spoke again from the void Stiles had carved out for him.  Instead, they were one.

 

He didn’t hear the whispers anymore, of all the things that didn’t happen, the parallel realities. He didn’t hear them, only through them, and felt them in his bones. It wasn’t better, not really, but it wasn’t worse. It was just...quieter.

 

And the Nemeton - God. The Nemeton did that. It swallowed up the last of the demon, snuffed it, and poured what was left of its magic, its mind, into Stiles soul. And then it stayed, a depthless well of magic, and Stiles felt too small to house so much, but he felt right too. His mind was quiet, and the Nemeton quieted the guilt too. Things made more sense when one became the continuum of magic. Magic had to go somewhere - to the wells within the Earth. Stiles was a well now, with the Nemeton inside him. As a spark, Stiles drew from the Earth. As the Nemeton, he became the Earth.

 

It was kind of a big deal, what he did, made possible only by a series of completely random circumstances beginning with Stiles decision to go look for half a dead body in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. Deaton hadn’t been impressed.

 

There were more tattoos, more ink to bind and ground him. Earth, Water, Fire, Air; Stiles had to embody them all. He had to be one with the Elements, one with the World, and it hurt.  He paid homage to gods that weren’t his own, he paid blood to all four corners of Existence. He prayed to stars, and collected feathers and ate the still-beating heart of a raven while the goddamn pack watched. It changed him. Remade him, calmed him, quieted him. But God - it was hard.

 

Hardest maybe because Danny. Sweet Danny, pretty Danny, ignorant Danny that had somehow come to represent all the human things in the world that Stiles could never quite touch again. He couldn’t touch Danny - purity was important before the ritual of Emissaries. He couldn’t cross over any more tainted than he already was.

 

It seemed an unnecessary cruelty against drinking mushroom tea and spending three days naked in the deep forest and the blood and the ink and the pain, that he couldn’t have Danny the way he so fucking desperately wanted. Not then and not ever, not now. He was a hot-blooded American male, eighteen and virginal; he wanted Danny so bad he could taste it on his tongue. But it was Danny who made him want to keep his hands to himself, who made him stay strong and focused and grounded to the Pack and to the Earth. He wanted to be good for Danny, for all that he fucking failed. He wanted to be human for Danny, and he never, ever could.

 

He tried, though. He poured himself full of ink and magic. He swallowed up all knowledge he could contain on things like warding and possession and balance and serenity. He learned differently; tainted with a thousand years of life from the Nogitsune.  Languages absorbed more quickly. Passing thoughts grew to swift fruition, planting new ideas, new theories in his mind. It felt not unlike ADHD but it couldn’t be tamed with pills or will. Just...more runes.

 

They couldn’t quite smother what Stiles was now, though, or the violence in him that manifested so quickly it scared him at times. Stiles could taste blood on his tongue, and his fingers often itched to break skin or bones.  He was a dark thing now, Nemeton and Nogitsune all in one, and so far from a human it left him aching and terrified at times.

 

And okay, maybe eating the fresh little curl of new spring green growing from the decapitated tree stump was a bad idea, but Stiles is full of bad ideas. Literally, kind of. The Nogitsune whispered in his ear, eat it eat it eat it. And yeah, Stiles knew not to listen to that basket of crazy, but he’d kind of sort of hoped that it would kill the murderous little hate demon. And it had in a way, but nothing is ever really dead and magic had to go somewhere.

 

Oh sure, that came with the added benefit of silencing the Nogitsune, but now Stiles feels those thoughts, instead of hearing them.  Of course, with the power of the Nemeton, he’s more than capable of overcoming any sudden and horrific impulse to brutally murder entire populaces, but it’s hard.  Stiles is the Nogitsune now - he is the demon. He’s also the Nemeton; endless depths of power. He’s always had impulse control issues, never understood how limit’s worked, and now....there isn’t any. It’s a bad combination, but he’s doing his best with it. Inked up, and tied to the pack, he’ll be grounded. Hey, and no more nightmares. Well - not Nogitsune ones. Just the normal ‘wow I murdered a lot of people’ type ones.

 

He really misses Danny.

 

Tomorrow is the full Moon - and the final step in his training to become a Druid, and the Hale-slash-McCall Pack emissary. You think, given his saturated magical nature that it would have been easy, but no.  He’s a tainted spark, and getting that in check had proven to be a constant battle. Stiles is more warded than Bobby Singer’s basement.  God, but he hates needles. And fuck, he wishes it was just needles, but a lot of ritual warding marks require traditional methods. Some of those methods involve a hammer.

 

He’s inked from the neck down in sigils, wards, runes, and more. They make his body feel weird like it’s not his at all and the only time he’s ever really liked the marks is when Danny’s put his mouth on them. His body looks - feels - foreign, and in a way it is. It was made for a boy, and Stiles is anything but. It fits poorly, sewn up and stretched to fit something impossibly bigger. The pack will help that when they finish the ritual. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll crossover, and time himself to the Pack and the Moon. Tomorrow.

 

So yeah - he's not supposed to be alone, this close to the full moon. Not when his magic's itching to burst his tight-knit seams. Not when crying might cause a rain storm or screaming might break the ground apart. Not when he feels so god awful, and worthless and blood-soaked. Not when Druids linger on the outskirts of Hale land, tossing hex-bags in Stiles car, mailing them to the goddamn Sheriff’s office, itching to get their fingers in his dirty little soul and pure, virgin magic.

 

Kids like him - baby witches full as can be before crossing the moon - they’re catnip to the bad sort who would eat him up. And sure, he’s got more magic in his left nostril than most witches could hunt or steal in a lifetime, but it won’t do him much good until he’s grounded. He’ s an over-charged battery, but he’s not invincible.

 

So yeah - he's really not supposed to be alone. The whole endeavor has I Told You So written all over it. But....he needs to see Danny. Just once, before he crosses over.  Four more blocks and he’ll be there... If he sticks to the shadows, he should be fine. That, Deaton, had explained, was demon magic, not Witch.

 

He lets the magic collect in his palms again, crackling like baby bolts of lightning. He’s preparing to launch himself back into the shadows when something grips him by the neck and hauls him back. Stiles feels like someone’s grabbed him directly by the spine.

 

He falls back on a manicured patch of green - someone’s front lawn judging by the mailbox- and winces as his tailbone aches in protest. “What the---”

 

“Stilinski?”

 

Mr. Harris stares down at him, his eyes wide in his narrow face. His glasses are askew, and his hair is flat like he’s been sleeping, and he’s wearing a blue plaid robe that suggests the same.

 

“Uh.” A lie is building on his tongue, but he’s interrupted.

 

“Get up, get up!” Mr. Harris hauls him to his feet, his long fingers biting meanly into the meat of Stiles' arm. “What on Earth do you think you’re - no, of course, you’re not thinking. You never do! Do you even realize - you complete moron.... shit.” He shoves Stiles behind him abruptly, turning to face the street, and Stiles doesn’t know what’s going on, even when a ring of glowing green mushrooms sprouts around their feet. “You’ll stay in the circle if you know what’s fucking good for you, you imbecile.”

 

“I---”

 

“You’ll shut your awful mouth, too,” Mr. Harris says, arching a single brow. Stiles feels his mouth snap closed without his permission and while he knows he could open it, he’s too shocked not too. Mr. Harris just spelled him quiet. Mr. Harris just pulled up a fucking fairy ring in his front yard.

 

“Adrian,” someone says - a woman, both old and young. Stiles can’t tell, and that’s disturbing. “You’ve caught my mouse.”

 

“I’ve caught my student out past curfew,” Mr. Harris replies. “I suggest you hunt elsewhere, Liza. As per our agreement? This one belongs to the local sheriff, his disappearance would not be so easily written off as an animal attack or run away brat. And I’ve never taken to kindly to those picking from my garden as it were. You're standing on my front lawn; have a little decency.”

 

“This one,” the woman drawls, eyeing Stiles with bright eyes, “smashed up my delivery boy. He’s entirely useless now. Refuses to run even the most innocent of orders.”

 

“You’re the boss?” Stiles says because he’s too strong for Harris’ spell. “Oh man. Derek is gonna be so pissed. You're not supposed to be on Hale Land---”

 

Harris slaps a physical hand on Stiles' mouth, and it’s more effective than the spell. “Call of your crows, Liza. This one is well watched.”

 

The woman pouts. “You just want to eat him for yourself.”

 

Before Stiles can voice his utter disgust at that, Harris snorts. “Spare me your petulance, Witch. I can say with utmost honesty that the day I’m done with this fool, is a day to celebrate, truly.”

 

Liza laughs. “There’s more than just me that’s come for the kid. A virgin-rite? It’s not every day there’s a chance at something so deliciously ripe.”

 

“If you know the boy like I did, you’d be less surprised no one’s stuck their fingers in his pot,” Harris says with a devilish little snort. Stiles is offended! Stiles is totally offended. “Tell the others they will be met with the same resistance should they come after him. He’s well watched, Liza. It’s a wonder he’s out tonight.”

 

“Hmmm,” the witch sounds, thoughtfully. “Adrian Harris playing guard dog. Will wonders never cease.”

 

“Hardly. Sparing a boy’s bloody death on my front fucking lawn can barely be considered altruistic. The Sheriff already doesn’t care for me, I needed not exacerbate his hate-fire.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll let it go for now, if for no reason than our good business, Adrian. But the boy and his wolves....well, our business is hardly finished.”

 

“What happens away from this patch of green is hardly my business.” Stiles looks down at the grass as Harris speaks, to the men's house slippers sinking inches into the mud of his over-watered lawn.  Asshole.

 

Mr. Harris doesn’t move an inch until the witch is gone, disappearing into the mist that litters the street. “Come on,” he says, flashing Stiles a mean look. “I think we ought to go inside.”

 

“I’d really rather not.” Because as interesting as finding out your most loathed teacher is also a witch, Stiles has better things to do.

 

“I’m really not asking.” He taps his muddy house-slipper, expectantly. “She’s waiting at the edge of the street, and there are others. Can’t you feel them?”

 

He...he doesn’t know how to feel for other powers, but he doesn’t want to tell Mr. Harris that. “I’ll call the pack.” Because it’s obvious Mr.Harris fucking knows and isn’t that a trip.

 

“Do it from inside,” Mr. Harris instructs, firm and annoying as ever. “We have matters to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHAHAHA - there will be more. Like stiles special Moon Rite and all that. I kind of just wanted to give you guys an overview of what Stiles has been going through. Some of the stuff going on, like the Nogistune screaming, takes place BEFORE Danny and he hook up, but some of it, like Stiles eating the Nemeton, take place during/after. It's a loose time line for a reason, and mostly just so you can...know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blood wards,” Mr. Harris cuts him off. “My property is set in blood wards. Not even the mailman can set foot on my path without me knowing. You...you tromped right through them like you were skipping through a goddamn field of daisies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't pretend like I didn't warn you. because I warned you.

He’s frog-marched up the path, and up the stairs of the porch and across the threshold. Only once the door is shut and locked behind them, does Mr.Harris lets him go. Stiles suspects there is an element of magic to his hold, because as soon as his hands leave Stiles' shoulders, he feels inexplicably cold. 

 

Mr. Harris doesn’t move right away but stands there in the front room with an unexpectedly horrified expression for a man who obviously knows about the supernatural. It’s not like he just discovered werewolves were real, or something!  He looks like he’s adjusting his worldviews. And yeah - Stiles kind of gets that. His chemistry teacher is a  _ witch _ . 

 

He can see into the living room and part of the kitchen from where he stands on the mud matt. There’s a broom on the floor -  _ company’s coming _ . He nearly laughs when he realizes that the company is probably himself. Jesus Christ - Mr. Harris is a witch. “Uh.So like...should I wait here, or....” 

 

A long, loud breath escapes Mr. Harris from where he’s leaning against the door. He scrubs a hand down his face. “I fucked your mother.” 

 

That. That is not what Stiles was expecting. 

 

“Oh.” He’s briefly stunned at the word fuck falling from a teacher's mouth when the reality if the statement catches up with him. ‘Oh.  _ Oh, my god _ . What.” He’s too horrified to infect his voice with enough inflection to make that useless word a question. 

 

Pacing past him, long legs making short work of the sitting room, Mr. Harris drops hard into an uncomfortable looking chair. “You understand my meaning?” 

 

“You’re my -” Actual bile rises up in Stiles' throat, and he can’t force himself to make the words spill forth. Simply can’t. “ _ Fuck _ .”

 

“So you  _ do  _ know. Sit down.” It’s a familiar order, from a familiar mouth and Stiles obeys more on reflex than much else. He perches himself on the edge of a pristine, velveteen couch and looks at a spot directly behind Mr.Harris’ head. “What was your mother's’ name?” 

 

“How can you not know?” Stiles reels, physically jerking backward as if Mr.Harris had slapped him. “How can you not know that, and know that I’m you’re - that you’re my - that---” 

 

“Blood wards,” Mr. Harris cuts him off. “My property is set in blood wards. Not even the mailman can set foot on my path without me knowing. You...you tromped right through them like you were skipping through a goddamn field of daisies.”

 

Hope, stupid and bright, flares in Stiles' belly. “No, it’s...I could have broken them. I’m strong enough.” It’s possible. Blood wards are tricky, though - Stiles would know. He had a Hale blood ward etched into his skin. 

 

Mr.Harris gives him a skeptical look. “Perhaps so, but my wards weren’t broken Mr. Stilinski. They acted exactly as they were intended. Only my most direct blood - mother, father, sibling or child - can cross them without my permission. As I am an only child, and my parents are dead, that leaves one viable option. You.” 

 

“Claudia Kolodziej.” 

 

Mr. Harris shrugs. “I don’t recall the name.” It’s said so carelessly as if the name isn’t all Stiles has left of his mother. 

 

“I have a picture,” he says flatly, fumbling for his wallet. He keeps it hidden behind his driver's license. It’s the same one Danny saw all those months ago, with Stiles on her hip and another baby in her belly. He doesn’t remember her losing the baby, just a baby himself, but it still hurts to see all the things that never came to be. 

 

He hands the picture to Mr. Harris, whose face...softened, in a way. It’s a minuscule shift, but Stiles is well-read in noticing such things. “Ah.” He hands the picture back. “That’s Claudia  _ Louvel _ , though now that I think about it, her mother might have been Polish.  Bit wider in the hips than I remember, but her face is hard to forget. We went to boarding school together back in Colorado. She was a year behind me, I think.” 

 

And Stiles has seen the photographs of his mother in her school uniform, an intimidating building sprouting up from behind her, the words  _ TIMBERLINE ACADEMY _ standing and crisp above the wide, double doors. His dad uses to tease her about her pretentious prep-school upbringing. 

 

“There are tests to confirm,” Mr. Harris says, and it’s not spoken gently, or in anything that could be considered a conciliatory tone. It’s just...informational. “Or perhaps even a spell.” 

 

It’s too much to consider. Mr. Harris, a witch. Mr. Harris, his...his  _ father _ . 

 

“You really didn’t know?” 

 

“Prior to twenty minutes ago, you were but a thorn in my side,” Mr. Harris confirms. “Any relations Claudia and I had were short lived, and when I left for college, I never returned. It was hardly a love match, Mr. Stilinski. And your mother was no innocent. She’d been forced to take a  _ sabbatical  _ once before,” the emphasis on the word means nothing to Stiles, and Harris, bless the bastard, takes pity on him. “She’d fallen pregnant once before. If memory serves, the rumor was that her parents took her to some clinic that specialized in those sort of problems.” He shrugs, and something inside Stiles withers and burns. 

‘ _ How’d you meet mom _ ’ Stiles had asked his dad so many years ago. The Sheriff had laughed, head tipped back in fond memory.  _ ‘Walking barefoot down the one-eleven, with nothing but an ugly guitar and eleven bucks to her name.’  _ Barefoot, Stiles thinks, and pregnant. 

 

“Fucking Beacon Hills,” Stiles mutters, because the place is a sucking, endless abyss of misery and horrible surprise. 

 

“Yes,” Mr. Harris agrees. “There is that. Hmm. It’s been something like ten years since I moved to Beacon Hills. I’d just finished my education and internships. There were job offers in much more lucrative cities, but I’d been drawn to Northern California.” 

 

Ten years go, Stiles had moved to Beacon Hills. The Sheriff - only a deputy then - had gotten a job in Beacon Hills only weeks before his mother was diagnosed. When it became clear that recovery was unlikely, it hadn’t made sense to pack up and move when her doctors and support groups were in Clallam County, so he’d continued the forty-five-minute commute. When she’d gone - well. Neither he nor Stiles could stand to live in a house full of his mother's ghosts.  So they’d moved to Beacon Hills, in a three bedroom split-level ranch clean of any heartbreak.  

 

 “I get why you were drawn here after me, but what drew me here? I was only like, eight at the time. What made my dad take the position in Beacon Hills? What - what made my mom find my dad?” Because the Sheriff is his dad. He’d really like Mr. Harris even try to argue that.  

 

“It  _ is  _ a beacon, Stiles.” Mr. Harris taps his fingers lightly on the arm of the chair.  Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever heard his name said on the man's lips without some element of derision. “Unfortunate though it is at times, a man's fate is mapped before his creation. You can follow that golden thread backward, but never forward. What made your grandfather join the military? What made your grandmother less than maternal? What made them decide on Timberline Academy? What made  _ my  _ parents decide on such a school? What circumstances led you mother and me too--” He pauses, coughing slightly. “That one I could answer, but I’ll do you the favor of not. It’s all just single moments bashing together, just a bunch of threads weaving in and out. In short, Mr. Stilinski, the world is made up of small coincidences all coinciding together to make a larger, more horrifying picture; life, as we live it.” 

 

“Coincidental circumstance made  _ you  _ my father,” Stiles says, and the words are dry and brittle. “That has to be some sort of pre-emptive karma in the works.” 

 

“As if you’re any kind of angel,” Mr. Harris scowls a little, mistaking Stiles meaning. But then, perhaps the truth is that they’re both just terrible people.  “I can assure you it wasn’t by any actual intent. Circumstance could have made great many men your father, as it were. Your mother probably  _ did  _ try to abort you too; it wouldn’t have taken of course. Magic will be.” 

 

It’s mean, but then, Stiles expects that. It’s actually kind of comforting. “My rite is tomorrow,” he says, putting everything else behind him.  Bile bubbles in his belly; resentful, bitter, Stiles knows what he has to do. The mature thing. The right thing. The safe thing. “You should probably come.” 

 

Mr. Harris makes a noise - choked and sort of startled. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you invite me to your  _ sacred crossing _ .” 

 

“Not for any sentimental reason,” Stiles snaps, sneering. “It’s just- I got into some trouble before...before I really knew what I was. A witch, I mean. I mean, I wasn’t much of a witch before the trouble, just a spark. But I...well. I’m sort of strong.” 

 

“Late bloomers,” Mr. Harris says shortly, looking for all the world as if he’s bitten a lemon. “You weren’t a weak witch or a spark. Our family,” he says slowly, hashing the words out, odd in the air around them. “Our family blooms late. Strong magic takes longer to manifest, as it were. I was almost twenty. It’s likely you’re not finished growing into your gifts.” 

 

“That’s...concerning.” Stiles blinks horrified at the thought that he might become stronger. “Okay, no. You really need to be there. I’m going to need as many witches willing to hold me down as possible.” 

 

Mr. Harris’ brow wrinkles at that, almost like a frown. “Crossing-over is generally fairly benign. Especially for a young witch. You’re pure, so there should be little back-lack.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a  _ virgin _ .” Stiles lets out a large gusty breath. “But I have blood on my hands.” 

“You’ve...you’ve  _ killed _ ?” There is genuine horror in Mr. Harris’ voice, and his eyes go wide behind his thin metal glasses. “In defense, or...” 

 

“Innocents,” Stiles spits the word out harshly. “I--- a lot of them. And I...and I took the blood from another's hands.” 

 

“That’s not possible.” 

 

“I was  _ possessed _ ,” Stiles argues, mostly because it’s rare that he can get the upper hand on Mr. Harris. “I was possessed by this--” He wants to  _ say ancient ass fox demon _ , but he’s found it harder to insult the Nogitsune after listening to it scream in agony in the back of his own mind. “This...demon. And I couldn’t get it out, so I locked it in.” Roughly, he shoves the sleeves of his hoodie up his arms, to reveal the marks there. Burned first, when he couldn’t think of anything else to do, and inked later. “I trapped it in me. It went insane, so I killed it, but the...the magic stayed. The memories. The soul, I think.” 

 

“You killed it while it was inside you?” Mr. Harris speaks softly, and his face is slack and free of his usual sharp disdain. “All by yourself?” 

 

“Most of it,” Stiles admits, feeling young and useless.  He smooths a hand over the rough runes of his left arm. “I had helped with these.  He helped me kill him; told me how.” 

 

“You had a sentient demon  _ inside  _ you.” Mr. Harris leans back hard in his chair, eyes still wide. “Mr. Stilinski....” 

 

“I think...well. It was sort of like I possessed  _ him _ , there in the end. Anyway, he got all mixed up in my mind, started feeling my guilt and shit and he went insane. So he told me how to end it and I did and it...did things to me. It left stuff behind.” 

 

“Demon magic.” Mr. Harris looks away, silent for a long moment. “That’s how you were shadow-walking. That’s not a witch's gift.” 

 

Stiles nods sharply. “There’s other stuff too, but I don’t trust you enough to tell you.  But my rite... there will be magical backlash. About a thousand years worth. Will you come?” 

 

“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate, and Stiles supposes’ that speaks largely of his character. He’s a dick, yeah, but he’s a helpful dick. Some people would say the same of Stiles.  “Do you...Oh.”  He fumbles with his robe, drawing out from beneath it a thin silver chain. “I understand if you have all your totems already, of course. Family totems tend to work better, however.” 

 

“No.” Stiles swallows at the sight of it. “No, I mean I don’t have a third.” He can feel it, alive and thrumming. Mr. Harris is...very, very powerful.  At the end of the chain, a jagged cut of topaz is hugged by an intricate filigree. It’s nothing like Doctor Deaton's glass beads or Ms. Mahealani wood carving.  It’s...fancy, he supposes. And very old.  Untangling it from his neck, Mr. Harris lets it sway three times before Stiles takes it. “It feels....” Sort of warm. Mostly alive. 

 

“Magic will call to magic,” Mr. Harris explains. “It recognizes you as...mine.” He looks, once again, like a man rearranging his world views.  “Call your wolves, Mr. Stilinski. We will convene...tomorrow.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Harris as Stiles dad is basically my aesthetic. But that doesn't mean Mr. Harris won't stop being a dick. And honestly, the dick apple didn't fall far from the dick tree, when it comes to Stiles.


End file.
